I recently spent some time in Solana Beach, just north of San Diego. What a fine break it was from the freeze of my town's January. My daughter and I walked in the sun, sat in the sun, soaked in the sun, reclined in the sun. She said we were in full lizard mode and I agree.
It felt so good, letting the warm rays wrap around limbs that have been cloistered in fleece and denim for months. We both tossed good judgment aside and let the sun toast our albino skin to bright pink. The "farmer tan" and swimsuit lines were proudly flaunted for a couple of days.
I really liked the intense colors of Solana Beach, particularly the brilliant whites, deep blues and crazy oranges in the area's nonstop sun. So festive, so goofy, so energizing. One neighborhood we walked through had delightful tile artwork along the street. A long tiled landscape in startling colors graced the front of one home. Another home integrated a wavey mosaic along the streetside fence. Shells and glass merged with blue tile in a carnival of color and light that ran all along the width of the home's lot. White stucco houses provided stunning backdrops for bronzed hardware (like a door's gargoyle), raggedy palm fronds, and brilliant tropical flowers. The reptilian blooms of the bird of paradise plant made me giggle, with their crazy spears of bright orange jousting from a purply core.
A few days in that marine sun was probably enough for us. My daughter and I both agreed that, as lovely as the climate and setting are, we prefer our own spots. She savors the soft, green moisture of the Pacific Northwest and I enjoy the intense span of temperature and season offered by my home in the high desert. She made the comment that there was too much sun for her in this seaside town. I thought about that as I flew home. For decades, I've wanted to live in Crete, to perch in a stuccoed white home atop dark rock, peering down at azure sea and up at azure sky. But I'm thinking now that I would only like that sharply contrasted setting for awhile. I'm thinking that maybe my daughter's observation about overabundant sun might temper my enjoyment.
I think I'll savor the sunnied brilliance of my sunroom today, knowing full well that dark grey days will soon come along to provide some vivid contrast. I think I'll enjoy my home's special sun spot, knowing that its presence is fleeting this time of year.
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Art n Love
Just spent three days basking in the glow of a group of artists that loves, I mean, loves its art. Watching this group (Ozomatli) perform, I was convinced that this isn't just a business deal for these guys. They love performing. They love taking their art to a higher level. They love seeing the joy in audiences' faces as they congo through the throbbing crowd at the end of a show. They love watching frenzied fans bounce, jump, wave, dip, and scream in response to their Latin, funk, hip-hop, mid-Eastern, rap art.
Because I've seen them perform so many times, because I read their posts on Facebook, because I sometimes talk to them before shows, I know their affection for the art is genuine. They're not just doing this for the money or the ego-strokes. The pull is heart-deep.
One of the Ozo shows I watched this weekend was devoted to kids: Ozokids. It was held in a rowdy adult venue, the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. It was held with an open bar (you had to be stamped to be able to drink the "Big People" drinks). It was attended by all kinds of adult Ozo fans. Seemed like a regular Ozo show...but it wasn't. The driving spirit of the show was genuine love, for the kids and for the music that moves kids to dance, jump, play instruments, and grin. Seeing these band members in silly costumes, doing gallops and jumps and performing really dorky drama, while powering out their wondrous music, was touching. It was like being in the living room (the loving room?) of a big, warm family.
This group has always touched me with their substance. These aren't fluffy pop artists; they care about issues, causes, humans, kids, and art. A short history of the group was recently captured at a composite presentation made in San Francisco at a TEDxSF show (TED is a program of local, self-organized events that bring people together to spark deep discussion and connection in a small group). The TED gig revealed the group's commitment to lots more than just CD and ticket sales. Their hearts beat for kids all over the world, as well as for social justice issues facing adults in this country and elsewhere.
Scoping Ozomatli's fifteen year history of commitment to music and social issues, the TED show was a cerebral confirmation that this group really does love its art, its art as a tool for social change and a warm hug extended across contention and discord.
But this weekend's Ozokids show was not cerebral confirmation. Seeing them shine for the next generation of Ozo fans, seeing their genuine affection for these kids, I responded emotionally, not intellectually. I became even more smitten with Ozomatli. They love their art. It shows. It's not pretense. It's the real deal. I love seeing such an authentic bond between artists and art. Their passion speaks to me deeply, reverently.
Because I've seen them perform so many times, because I read their posts on Facebook, because I sometimes talk to them before shows, I know their affection for the art is genuine. They're not just doing this for the money or the ego-strokes. The pull is heart-deep.
One of the Ozo shows I watched this weekend was devoted to kids: Ozokids. It was held in a rowdy adult venue, the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. It was held with an open bar (you had to be stamped to be able to drink the "Big People" drinks). It was attended by all kinds of adult Ozo fans. Seemed like a regular Ozo show...but it wasn't. The driving spirit of the show was genuine love, for the kids and for the music that moves kids to dance, jump, play instruments, and grin. Seeing these band members in silly costumes, doing gallops and jumps and performing really dorky drama, while powering out their wondrous music, was touching. It was like being in the living room (the loving room?) of a big, warm family.
This group has always touched me with their substance. These aren't fluffy pop artists; they care about issues, causes, humans, kids, and art. A short history of the group was recently captured at a composite presentation made in San Francisco at a TEDxSF show (TED is a program of local, self-organized events that bring people together to spark deep discussion and connection in a small group). The TED gig revealed the group's commitment to lots more than just CD and ticket sales. Their hearts beat for kids all over the world, as well as for social justice issues facing adults in this country and elsewhere.
Scoping Ozomatli's fifteen year history of commitment to music and social issues, the TED show was a cerebral confirmation that this group really does love its art, its art as a tool for social change and a warm hug extended across contention and discord.
But this weekend's Ozokids show was not cerebral confirmation. Seeing them shine for the next generation of Ozo fans, seeing their genuine affection for these kids, I responded emotionally, not intellectually. I became even more smitten with Ozomatli. They love their art. It shows. It's not pretense. It's the real deal. I love seeing such an authentic bond between artists and art. Their passion speaks to me deeply, reverently.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Art Talk
Artists talking about their art: not sure I like that. Years ago at a literary seminar in Key West my sister and I heard presentations from some of the writers I revere: Annie Dillard, Gretel Erhlich, Terry Tempest Williams, Jim Harrison, Rick Bass, Richard Nelson, Thomas McQuane, Peter Matthiessen. These are writers who stretch their necks out to defend the Earth and all its inhabitants. These are people who have won big with their art, as in Pulitzer, et al. These are world-renowned wordsmiths, weaving wonders about the natural world.
I loved the chance to see and hear them. I loved the opportunity to connect faces with persona I had imagined over the years as I read their works. I loved seeing the energy sizzle among them as they engaged in repartee.
But, as I look back on the experience, I also feel a bit disappointed. I saw that one was pompous and unreachable. Another was an annoying drunk. Another was shy to a fault in this setting. One candidly discussed artist's ethics in a way that was less than satisfying and tainted my view of her work. I saw that one loved the spotlight, enough to damage his artistic integrity. And, blessedly, another embodied all the idealized virtues I posted for her in my imagination. These writers were, in fact, very human artists: flawed, funny, and foolish.
I see now that I wanted, with these renowned nature writers, to let their art speak for them, to let the words they struggle over, build meticulously, revise and revise, be the lasting brand in my memory, not the characters doing their impromptu acting on a Key West stage.
This notion came to mind yesterday as I explored a wonderful exhibit of my state's superior artists. The juried show contained exciting, exquisite work in varied media, including sculpture, painting, printmaking, photography, and even robotics. A close friend of mine, a landscape photographer, had a stunning entry, a black and white panoramic scene. (One of his photographs is on the cover of my book of poetry.)
All these artists were invited to share a written message about their art. My friend's words were on point, showing me a strong moral commitment to his work and our planet, as well as helping me understand why he is now working with panoramic images. My experience of his art was enhanced by the words he wrote.
But in some instances, the words were distracting, at best, and even annoying. And why was I surprised at this? These artists' media are not based in words. That realm is not their forte. One entry, from an artist I met decades ago, was particularly notable. It displayed the artist's discomfort in using words, an uneasiness I remember from my personal contact with him. Although my understanding of his work was enhanced a bit by reading the words, the piece spoke to me powerfully on its own. I didn't need his shy, terse note.
So I thought about artists writing or talking about their art, about the act of using words to embellish, explain, or justify artwork. I prefer to deal directly with the source, to read/view/hear the artpiece and arrive at my own conclusions. Create your piece, dear artist, then let me decide what I think of it.
This is not to say that artists shouldn't write or talk about their work, not at all. It's just conveying my preference for a close encounter with the art.
I've spent some time writing / talking about my work, even though it makes me a bit self-conscious to do so. For example, the preface of my poetry book, The Silence of Bright Star, explains to the reader that poetry is for me like water and that the act of writing a poem is much like that of building furniture. These explorations were intended to share with my readers underlying views about the art but, in the end, my poems speak for themselves.
Art words---talk or prose about creations---are fine supplements. But for me the artwork is the purest connection I have with an artist.
I loved the chance to see and hear them. I loved the opportunity to connect faces with persona I had imagined over the years as I read their works. I loved seeing the energy sizzle among them as they engaged in repartee.
But, as I look back on the experience, I also feel a bit disappointed. I saw that one was pompous and unreachable. Another was an annoying drunk. Another was shy to a fault in this setting. One candidly discussed artist's ethics in a way that was less than satisfying and tainted my view of her work. I saw that one loved the spotlight, enough to damage his artistic integrity. And, blessedly, another embodied all the idealized virtues I posted for her in my imagination. These writers were, in fact, very human artists: flawed, funny, and foolish.
I see now that I wanted, with these renowned nature writers, to let their art speak for them, to let the words they struggle over, build meticulously, revise and revise, be the lasting brand in my memory, not the characters doing their impromptu acting on a Key West stage.
This notion came to mind yesterday as I explored a wonderful exhibit of my state's superior artists. The juried show contained exciting, exquisite work in varied media, including sculpture, painting, printmaking, photography, and even robotics. A close friend of mine, a landscape photographer, had a stunning entry, a black and white panoramic scene. (One of his photographs is on the cover of my book of poetry.)
All these artists were invited to share a written message about their art. My friend's words were on point, showing me a strong moral commitment to his work and our planet, as well as helping me understand why he is now working with panoramic images. My experience of his art was enhanced by the words he wrote.
But in some instances, the words were distracting, at best, and even annoying. And why was I surprised at this? These artists' media are not based in words. That realm is not their forte. One entry, from an artist I met decades ago, was particularly notable. It displayed the artist's discomfort in using words, an uneasiness I remember from my personal contact with him. Although my understanding of his work was enhanced a bit by reading the words, the piece spoke to me powerfully on its own. I didn't need his shy, terse note.
So I thought about artists writing or talking about their art, about the act of using words to embellish, explain, or justify artwork. I prefer to deal directly with the source, to read/view/hear the artpiece and arrive at my own conclusions. Create your piece, dear artist, then let me decide what I think of it.
This is not to say that artists shouldn't write or talk about their work, not at all. It's just conveying my preference for a close encounter with the art.
I've spent some time writing / talking about my work, even though it makes me a bit self-conscious to do so. For example, the preface of my poetry book, The Silence of Bright Star, explains to the reader that poetry is for me like water and that the act of writing a poem is much like that of building furniture. These explorations were intended to share with my readers underlying views about the art but, in the end, my poems speak for themselves.
Art words---talk or prose about creations---are fine supplements. But for me the artwork is the purest connection I have with an artist.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Letting Go
Every day I get a message from the Dalai Lama. He encourages me (and the thousands of others who follow him on Facebook) to let go of anger, to let go of attachment, and to hold on to compassion and kindness. His words have guided me for years. I sometimes wear a white silk scarf I was given at a luncheon where he spoke. A person's wearing such a scarf signals that she comes with good intentions. I like that scarf and wear it on special occasions.
The Dalai Lama helps me nurture compassion and kindness. Recently I've had an opportunity to test these traits in response to behaviors of a very unhappy person. My initial response to these behaviors was to cry, to solicit support from those I love and trust, and then to get angry, really, really angry. The attack was, in my mind, unprovoked and mean-spirited. I clung to my anger for a day or so. Then, after reading a message from the Dalai Lama, I went for a walk.
I walked through a haunting memorial to Anne Frank. I meandered along the water feature, studying quotes from inspirational persons all over the globe, from victims of oppression on this continent, Europe, Asia, and South America. I studied the bronze sculpture of Frank, a likeness captured as a lean teenager peering out a window. I was truly awestruck by her comment that, in spite of everything, she thought people were basically good.
How could she practice such compassion? How could she let go of anger, given the horrors of the Holocaust that she witnessed daily? How could I stay angry, when my wound was so slight?
My steps took on new energy as I left the Anne Frank memorial. It was really possible for me to let go of this anger. It was really possible for me to move on to a realm where scowls and tears were replaced by grins and laughter. And so I did. Even this week, when another snotty message was shot my way, I let it go. Processed it, then let it go.
Each moment I'm unhappy is a moment I could have spent being happy. Each frown I wear is an expression I could have turned around.
My daily messages from the Dalai Lama, my walk through the Anne Frank memorial are special blessings in my life. They help me practice kindness and compassion. They help me with the very important task of letting go.
The Dalai Lama helps me nurture compassion and kindness. Recently I've had an opportunity to test these traits in response to behaviors of a very unhappy person. My initial response to these behaviors was to cry, to solicit support from those I love and trust, and then to get angry, really, really angry. The attack was, in my mind, unprovoked and mean-spirited. I clung to my anger for a day or so. Then, after reading a message from the Dalai Lama, I went for a walk.
I walked through a haunting memorial to Anne Frank. I meandered along the water feature, studying quotes from inspirational persons all over the globe, from victims of oppression on this continent, Europe, Asia, and South America. I studied the bronze sculpture of Frank, a likeness captured as a lean teenager peering out a window. I was truly awestruck by her comment that, in spite of everything, she thought people were basically good.
How could she practice such compassion? How could she let go of anger, given the horrors of the Holocaust that she witnessed daily? How could I stay angry, when my wound was so slight?
My steps took on new energy as I left the Anne Frank memorial. It was really possible for me to let go of this anger. It was really possible for me to move on to a realm where scowls and tears were replaced by grins and laughter. And so I did. Even this week, when another snotty message was shot my way, I let it go. Processed it, then let it go.
Each moment I'm unhappy is a moment I could have spent being happy. Each frown I wear is an expression I could have turned around.
My daily messages from the Dalai Lama, my walk through the Anne Frank memorial are special blessings in my life. They help me practice kindness and compassion. They help me with the very important task of letting go.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Bluing
Gardeners' Holy Grail is blue. I know this. I know this because I read gardening catalogues, gardening blogs, gardening books, gardening memoirs. I know this too because deep blue in my garden steals my breath.
What is it about deep blue? Why do we garden folk trek far to find a clear, hearty blue for our beds? Why did the Himalayan blue poppy stir so much excitement? There are so very many colors to choose from! Why blue? What's wrong with red or pink or apricot or yellow? Why blue?
Something magic going on with hearty blues. Years ago I used to paint reproductions of medieval illuminations, recreating tiny scenarios of m' lady and her knight, fantastic creatures, and stylized flowers, all in a delightful palate of toasty reds, greens and browns. Then I'd crown these little pieces with gold leaf and intense royal blue! What a show! I'd carry them proudly to my mentor, a PhD smitten with courtly love and, maybe, me, and offer them up. "Here, here is my offering: some royal blue. For you."
Something about blue. When my late husband and I were looking for engagement rings (I said No to a diamond), he yelled across the gem store, holding the perfect stone: "Hey, Lowman, how about a chunk of mountain sky?" How about a chunk of mountain sky, indeed. It was perfect! A cornflower sapphire from Sri Lanka. Ideal! We designed the wedding band to fit around the engagement ring and I cherished it for the 18 years of our marriage. And somehow he'd find delicious blue-stoned rings to give me as Christmas gifts.
Betty Davis wore a stunning sapphire ring in the movie "Dark Victory." Diagnosed with a terminal disease, her character jumped into the remaining time. I have a reproduction of Davis' ring: three bands of emerald cut stones, diamonds and dark sapphires, a dark victory indeed. Wearing the ring makes me cherish each breath.
Strong blues just strike deep chords. Don't know why. I don't wear a lot of blues, don't have blue furniture, have never chosen a blue car. But deep blue in the garden: now that's another story. A berm dedicated to my late aunt is jammed with blue Japanese iris; they'll be popping out soon, hundreds of them, dancing around with the strongly pink (no candy-ass pastels here) tulips that are strutting today. I've encouraged the rowdy centaurea montana (mountain bluet, a cornflower...like a big bachelor button, but all dressed in the same intense dark blue) to take over wherever it can. Enabling its spread, I give starts to friends and neighbors. "Here, here is my offering. Some royal blue. For you."
This week I found indigo in the gorgeous garden my sister and her husband have painted in the bay area. My goodness: a bench, inviting one to sit, think, meditate, breath, view, smell...a bench of royal blue. What a treasure! A chance to tap into the magic of this rich hue, the resonant tone that is blue.
What is it about deep blue? Why do we garden folk trek far to find a clear, hearty blue for our beds? Why did the Himalayan blue poppy stir so much excitement? There are so very many colors to choose from! Why blue? What's wrong with red or pink or apricot or yellow? Why blue?
Something magic going on with hearty blues. Years ago I used to paint reproductions of medieval illuminations, recreating tiny scenarios of m' lady and her knight, fantastic creatures, and stylized flowers, all in a delightful palate of toasty reds, greens and browns. Then I'd crown these little pieces with gold leaf and intense royal blue! What a show! I'd carry them proudly to my mentor, a PhD smitten with courtly love and, maybe, me, and offer them up. "Here, here is my offering: some royal blue. For you."
Something about blue. When my late husband and I were looking for engagement rings (I said No to a diamond), he yelled across the gem store, holding the perfect stone: "Hey, Lowman, how about a chunk of mountain sky?" How about a chunk of mountain sky, indeed. It was perfect! A cornflower sapphire from Sri Lanka. Ideal! We designed the wedding band to fit around the engagement ring and I cherished it for the 18 years of our marriage. And somehow he'd find delicious blue-stoned rings to give me as Christmas gifts.
Betty Davis wore a stunning sapphire ring in the movie "Dark Victory." Diagnosed with a terminal disease, her character jumped into the remaining time. I have a reproduction of Davis' ring: three bands of emerald cut stones, diamonds and dark sapphires, a dark victory indeed. Wearing the ring makes me cherish each breath.
Strong blues just strike deep chords. Don't know why. I don't wear a lot of blues, don't have blue furniture, have never chosen a blue car. But deep blue in the garden: now that's another story. A berm dedicated to my late aunt is jammed with blue Japanese iris; they'll be popping out soon, hundreds of them, dancing around with the strongly pink (no candy-ass pastels here) tulips that are strutting today. I've encouraged the rowdy centaurea montana (mountain bluet, a cornflower...like a big bachelor button, but all dressed in the same intense dark blue) to take over wherever it can. Enabling its spread, I give starts to friends and neighbors. "Here, here is my offering. Some royal blue. For you."
This week I found indigo in the gorgeous garden my sister and her husband have painted in the bay area. My goodness: a bench, inviting one to sit, think, meditate, breath, view, smell...a bench of royal blue. What a treasure! A chance to tap into the magic of this rich hue, the resonant tone that is blue.
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